


Deep Service

by illuminatedcities



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Collars, Cunnilingus, F/M, Leashes, M/M, Multi, OT3, Praise Kink, Shower Sex, Submission, Threesome - F/M/M, Voyeurism, d/s dynamics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-22
Updated: 2016-03-22
Packaged: 2018-05-28 09:52:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6324502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/illuminatedcities/pseuds/illuminatedcities
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Happy birthday," Grace says, kissing his cheek. "You've been under so much stress recently, I thought some relaxation would be nice."</p>
<p>"How very thoughtful of you," Harold says, his voice gratifyingly rough.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Deep Service

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Sky for beta. <33
> 
> So was this story honestly created on the basis of an obscure House of Cards inside joke? Why yes, it [was](http://theragnarokd.tumblr.com/post/140753360834/did-meechum-and-frank-bang). 
> 
> #deep service

"You brought your own collar," Grace says, smiling. She runs her fingers over the smooth leather band. "Want me to fasten the clasp for you?"

John nods, his throat suddenly a little too tight to form words. Grace has led him to a large, comfortable bed and told him to undress, sitting on the edge of the bed in her skirt and green cardigan, watching him. John met her when he was doing security during a vernissage at the art gallery she works at. They met for lunch a few times since then, chatting amicably, Grace sharing stories about eccentric colleagues and John talking about the rich wives with pearl earrings and fox stoles who keep flirting with him during art shows after a few glasses of champagne. At some point Grace had put down her cup, nodded to the red marks just visible under the cuffs of John's shirt and said in a low voice: "So, rope or handcuffs?"

Now she places the collar around his throat, pulling the leather band through the metal loop until it fits snugly against John's skin.

"Too tight?" Grace asks, softly. Her thumb is running lightly over the skin of his throat, not so much soothing as electrifying.

John shivers. "Perfect," he croaks.

She fastens the clasp and tilts her head, considering. "Hmh, almost," she says, and then gets up to rummage around in a drawer.

It's not the first time that John has played with people he met only recently: after he got out of the Army, he and Jess were over, and he was drifting from one crappy private security job to the next. At first it was one-night stands with strangers he met in bars, then a few visits to kink clubs: getting fucked in dimly-lit backrooms, a woman in red stiletto pumps flogging him, staying tied up in a stress position for a few hours while someone used nipple clamps on him. It was good enough, for a while, but sometimes, it still left him wanting, something in his chest desperately hollow even after he had come.

"There you go," Grace says. She has produced a thin leash made of smooth brown leather, winding it around her hand. "I knew I still had this somewhere. What do you think?"

John draws in a sharp breath. He has been hard since the moment she ordered him to take off his clothes. "Yes," John says, nodding.

Grace beams at him and makes her way back to the bed with a spring in her step. Seeing her unrestrained joy, her excitement about the surprise she has arranged, makes John want to be good for her, to make her _happy._

"How would you feel about being someone's birthday present?" She had asked him at some point, biting her lip, when they were discussing more intimate details of their lives. She had then launched into an explanation about how her fiancé, Harold, had a history of preparing the most elaborate, surprising birthday treasure hunts for her, and anything she ever got him for _his_ birthday seemed to pale in comparison.

"Should I be wearing a bow?" John asked, and she laughed.

"I was thinking you should be wearing nothing at all," Grace had said, voice low, intimate. "A collar, maybe, or a pair of handcuffs."

_I see why he proposed to you_ , John thought, suddenly, feeling a spike of envy. He shook himself out of it: no point in yearning for something that he couldn't have. They talked about specifics, then: limits, safewords, but John could already tell that Grace and her mysterious Harold were not going to get off on causing him serious pain or humiliating John. There was a part of him that was disappointed by that realization: Grace could have left all the scars on his body that she wanted.

Grace clips the leash to his collar and John sighs. He is kneeling on the bed, exposed, vulnerable, sporting a very obvious erection. He keeps his hands crossed behind his back, even though they are not tied.

Grace runs her fingers over his cheek, the line of his jaw. "You're beautiful," she says, and John bows his head, trying to hide how the blood rushes into his face. "We will take very good care of you."

Then John hears a key turning in the lock of the front door and looks up. Grace grins and winks at him. "Here goes nothing."

\--

John stays where he is while Grace goes to greet Harold at the door. John can hear them talking in hushed voices in the hallway, then the sound of Grace's delighted laugh. John keeps his spine straight and his hands behind his back, the leash hanging loosely from his collar. When they walk in, Grace is leading her fiancé by the hand: Harold is a short, middle-aged man with mousy hair and a tweed three-piece suit. His eyes widen a little when he looks at John.

"Happy birthday," Grace says, kissing his cheek. "You've been under so much stress recently, I thought some _relaxation_ would be nice."

"How very thoughtful of you," Harold says, his voice gratifyingly rough.

John bows his head, pushing his arms back a little more, flexing his muscles. He is not above showing off, and he enjoys their attention on him.

"John," Grace says, moving her hand in the air between them like she's introducing them at a cocktail party. "This is Harold. Harold – John."

"It's a pleasure to meet you," Harold says. He steps closer to the bed and reaches out to John, placing two fingers under his jaw and carefully pushing his chin up so he can look at John's face.

John doesn't reply, he doesn't know if he is supposed to. Harold smirks, pleased, and it makes John's heart beat faster: there is something about him, a kind of quiet authority that makes John want to lie down on his back, present his belly and _whine_.

"I think we'll all have a very good time tonight, John, don't you?"

Harold's voice is lovely, all honey with a hint of steel beneath. In reply, John leans down and nuzzles his fingers, and then Grace is beside him, running her hands through John's hair.

"He is gorgeous," Harold tells her, and John's eyes go heavy-lidded at the praise.

"He _is_ ," Grace says, and then she takes the leash and tugs, keeping it pulled taut between the collar and her hand, and John realizes that if they asked him to crawl over glass shards right now, he'd only ask _How far?_.

–-

“What would you like, darling?” Grace asks, like she's asking him to choose a restaurant.

Harold looks thoughtful for a moment. “I'd like to watch,” he says, running his hand over her waist.

“ _Oh_ ,” Grace says, looking at John. “Alright.”

Harold kisses her on the forehead and then sits down in a chair next to the bed, crossing his legs. Grace has the leash still wound firmly around her hand when she pulls John closer. “Would you like to be very good for me, John?” She asks.

“Yes,” John breathes, clasping his own wrists to keep himself in check.

“I thought so,” Grace says, softly, like she's sharing a secret. She undresses quickly, obviously at ease, loses her cardigan and blouse and skirt and gets rid of her pantyhose until she's standing there in green lace panties and a bra. “Would you like to do the rest?”

John can feel Harold's gaze on him when he gets up and reaches around Grace's slim body to undo the clasp of her bra and slide the straps down her shoulders. She slides her hands around his neck, nails scratching at the sensitive skin just below the hairline, and John sighs and lets his eyes fall shut.

“Hmh, do you like that?” Grace asks. She steps closer until they're pressed up against each other, then she guides his hands down to her hips.

“Yes,” John says, opening his eyes and pulling her underwear down, going to his knees to help her step out of it. On a whim, he presses a kiss against her shin, just under her knee, and Grace giggles. It's a sweet, lovely sound.

Harold doesn't say anything, he just sits in his chair and watches them. Grace climbs onto the bed and lies down on her back. “Come here,” she says, and John kneels on the bed again, between her legs, waiting for her to tell him what she wants.

Grace takes the leash again and pulls him down against her, one hand firmly against his neck. The way she kisses him isn't sweet at all: she nibbles at his bottom lip and licks into his mouth, unafraid, her thighs locked around his waist.

“Go down on me,” she says, rubbing herself against him, maddeningly good.

John kisses his way down her body. He can feel Harold's gaze on him like a spotlight, hot between his shoulder blades. Grace spreads her legs, opening up for him. She's wet when he bends down to taste her, and she sighs in approval and gets a firm grip on his hair, pushing his face against her groin.

John breathes through his nose, trying hard not to hump the sheets: she reacts to every flick of his tongue, shuddering beneath him. “Yes, that's it, just like that,” she says, thrusting up against his mouth, holding him firmly in place.

John sucks on her clit and that has her tensing and moaning, and John's hips jerk against the sheets, slick underneath his stomach with sweat and precome. He curses softly when his own orgasm hits him, a sweet hot ache, and then immediately feels bad about his lack of self-restraint.

Grace is breathing heavily, her hair fanned out on the pillow around her. “Christ,” she says.

The leash is hanging loosely now, and John nuzzles her wrist in apology. “Sorry,” he says. “Didn't mean to come so soon. I'll be good for another round in a moment, if you want,” he adds, wincing.

Grace blinks in confusion, then suddenly sits up. “Oh, did you --” She looks at the telltale mess on the sheets. “ _Oh_ ,” she says, her face going even redder.

Then there's a tug on the leash again and John moves towards her, helpless, while she puts one hand against his cheek and reaches one between his legs. “Did you get so turned on by eating me out that you couldn't help yourself?” She asks, but it is not really a question. She curls a hand around his spent cock and John twitches, sensitive after coming. “No reason to apologize at all,” Grace says, kissing his throat.

John makes a helpless noise and moves into her touch: it's too much, too soon, but he doesn't want her to stop touching him. Then Harold is next to them, sliding a hand over John's back and up to his neck. He has taken off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves, his collar is unbuttoned, the tie gone. John lets his head sink back against Harold's hand, closing his eyes. Harold pets him like a dog.

“I understand why Grace picked you,” Harold says, fingernails scratching lightly at John's scalp, “You are quite extraordinary.”

John shudders both from the compliment and the feeling of Grace's hand on his sensitive skin. He opens his eyes to see her smiling brightly, beautifully. “How do you feel about getting fucked tonight, John?” She asks.

John turns his head to Harold, meets his gaze. “Yes,” he says, “yes, yes.”

–-

John expects Harold to be firm, efficient, he expects him not to waste too much time with foreplay, but Harold seems to be determined to show his appreciation of the gift he has been given: he tells John to kneel for him and then takes off his shirt and pants, folding them neatly, undressing completely before joining them back on the bed. John feels the loss of contact bodily: he wants Grace's small hands back on him, Harold's fingers combing through his hair. Grace is sitting with her back against the headboard, watching them.

Harold runs his hands over John's body, watching him closely, circling back to the spots that elicit the strongest response. He winds the leash around his wrist but keeps it hanging loosely in the air between them: giving John rope, leeway, but also demonstrating that Harold is in charge. John has no doubt that Harold would pull the leash tight if John did something to act out or disobey, and a part of John wants to push the limit, to see what _happens_. Maybe he could get Harold to pull his hair, bend him over his knee, maybe even get some light spanking out of it. John takes a breath and lets the thoughts pass. He is losing focus, wanting too much at once: he should accept the fact that this night is a one-time thing, that he won't get a second chance at being with them; he should not get attached to people he will never see again after tonight.

Harold's hands are a balm on his skin: John doesn't remember the last time someone touched him like this, like a lover instead of a quick fuck. It's just touch, John thinks, it shouldn't feel this _good_ , but every caress, every movement of Harold's palms on John's skin seems to be a reward, a sign of appreciation. After a while, John sways where he is kneeling on the bed, hazy with contentment, lightheaded.

Then Harold leans in to kiss him: a brief peck at first, and then, when John leans into it – greedy for this as much as anything else – , Harold pulls John close and kisses him deeply, generously, stroking John's shoulders, the back of his neck. The tenderness of it takes John by surprise, and it makes him reckless: he wants more, all of it, everything. He wants to curl up on their bed and let them pet him, this wondrous couple, let himself be washed and fed and cuddled, completely at their mercy.

“Lie down on your stomach,” Harold says, and John blinks for a moment, confused, lost in the rush of being touched, cared for.

He scrambles to obey, lying down with his face pressed into the sheets, trying to calm his racing heartbeat. He whimpers when Harold starts preparing him, a warm, lube-slick finger spreading him open. John suddenly wants nothing more than to be _full_ , to feel Harold's body pressed against his back. John makes another noise, more demanding, and then he feels Grace's hand on his cheek, carefully nudging his head into her lap, stroking his hair, his face. “It's alright,” she says softly, “It's all okay, John.”

He wonders distantly what she means, but when he opens his mouth to ask, all that comes out is a sob, choked and raw. John realizes belatedly that Grace is wiping tears from his cheeks and that Harold has withdrawn his finger, rubbing the small of John's back with his palm instead.

“Please,” John says, as soon as he can speak again. “More.”

Something passes between them, Harold and Grace, but the next thing John knows is that Grace's hands never leave his face, that Harold is opening him and filling him up and moving inside of him, and John has no defenses left: he just takes it, takes everything they give him.

“Shh, that's it, just let us take care of you,” Grace says to John while Harold fucks him, steady and sure.

John mouths at her hands, kisses her slender fingers. He can hear the sounds Harold is making, his quick, panting breaths. “Oh, _yes_ ,” he says above John, thrusting deeper, and John whimpers helplessly, hiding his face in Grace's hands.

Enough time has passed that John is hard again, rutting against the mattress, but even while his body is straining towards orgasm, what he really wants is to stay like this forever: pinned against the bed, Grace's fingers stroking his cheekbones, Harold's breath against John's back while he's fucking into him, establishing possession. Finally, Harold's hand sneaks between John's belly and the sheets and then lower still until he can close a hand around John's cock and stroke him firmly. John shudders violently and spills over Harold's hand, too far gone to hold back. Harold stills and makes a small, broken noise when he comes, his forehead resting against John's back, between his shoulder blades. John nuzzles Grace's hands, half-delirious.

“Well done, John, you've done so well,” Grace says, stroking his temples, soothing him to sleep.

–-

John wakes up feeling cold. He opens his eyes to a dimly lit bedroom, soft sheets covering him. Grace and Harold are standing in the doorway, both wearing matching robes and talking quietly by themselves. The bed is still warm where they were curled up next to John. The red digits of the alarm clock on the nightstand inform John that he has dozed off for no more than half an hour.

“Hey, you're awake,” Grace says. She touches Harold's shoulder briefly: a tactile conversation between them that John can't translate.

John sits up, wincing at the tacky feeling of lube and dried come on his skin. He should probably find his clothes, maybe help change the sheets before he goes. He has no idea what the protocol is for situations like these. Should he thank them? Tell them that he had a good time?

Grace comes over to ruffle his hair affectionately, then her hand lingers on his jawline, the side of his face. “How are you feeling?”

John swallows. Just the thought of returning to his quiet, empty apartment is making his stomach twist into knots. “I'm good,” John rasps. His mouth is dry. “I guess I should leave you to it, let you enjoy your evening in peace.”

Grace frowns at him. “Do you want to leave?”

The heavy, sated feeling of his afterglow is trickling out of John's body with every second. He feels hollow, anxious: he wants to curl up with them and sleep, safe between their bodies, under their hands. The desire is so strong it's almost sickening, and when John sits up all the way, he feels like he's going to throw up. “I should really go,” he mutters. “I'm sure you have better things to do than --”

He can't say it. Grace looks at him with concern etched clearly onto her face, like John has said something incredibly alarming.

“You can stay as long as you like, John,” Harold says from the doorway. John can't look at him.

“Hey,” Grace says, settling into John's lap. Her white, fluffy bathrobe falls open, and then she's pressed against his side, kissing his ear. “We're so glad to have you here, John. You don't have to leave if you don't want to, we'd be honored if you'd stay.”

“Actually, I thought you might enjoy a shower,” Harold says, stepping closer. He runs his right hand over Grace's hair and brings his left hand up to John's face, tracing John's lower lip with his thumb.

“Okay,” John says, and feels Grace smiling against his skin.

–-

The shower is a luxurious, spacious marble stall with a rain shower head installed on the ceiling. Harold takes off his bathrobe and steps inside to turn on the tap and adjust the temperature before beckoning him inside, and John follows him gratefully. Steam is fogging the glass walls, and then Harold pushes him up against the cool tile wall, water running over his shoulders, his hair dark and wet and plastered to his head.

“I don't know if Grace has mentioned it, but my job includes dealing with a number of IT issues and working on computers,” Harold says conversationally.

At some point, John's collar and leash have been taken off, and John feels weirdly exposed without them, naked. Well. More naked than he already is. Harold has produced a bottle from nowhere and is now running his hands over John's body, spreading fragrant foam over his skin. John lets his head sink back, enjoying the feeling of the hot water on his skin, Harold's clever hands washing him clean.

“I have acquired a few skillsets along the way,” Harold adds, spreading foam over John's chest, stroking his nipples.

John spreads his legs instinctively, pressing his back against the cool tile. His cock is soft and shows no sign of stirring at the intimate touch, if anything, John feels slightly sore from their recent physical activities. But there is a need thrumming under John's skin that he can't quite name, one that is not quite arousal.

“If I run a background check on you,” Harold says, slick hands moving down John's stomach and over his hips, “Will I find something unpleasant?”

John draws in a sharp breath when Harold takes John's soft cock in hand, slick and hot, and steps even closer, his body pressed against John's.

“No,” John says. “I was in the Army, and then I quit and did some private security instead. I have a small apartment, don't do drugs, never committed a felony --”

His voice falters when Harold reaches down to cup his balls, slide his index finger over John's perineum. John's cock gives an appreciative twitch.

“No, that's not – I drove a car into the side of our neighbour's house when I was eight, I guess that counts as a felony,” John gasps.

Harold chuckles mildly. “I think I can live with that,” he says. Then he grows more serious. “I work a lot of long hours, and I always regret leaving Grace all alone here by herself. We have been looking for someone who matches both of our tastes for a while now.”

John blinks, a little confused. “I'm not sure I understand what you mean.”

Harold meets his gaze. “Maybe you'd like to make this a permanent arrangement.”

John can't breathe. His lungs have stopped working, or maybe his ribcage is too small, or something obstructs his windpipe. He reaches for Harold, his hands slick on Harold's arms. “Please,” John says. “Please don't say that if you don't mean it, I need. I need to know if you mean it.”

Harold looks at him with large, surprised eyes. “But I do,” he says, gently. “Of course I mean it.”

John's head is spinning. He wants to say something, but he doesn't remember _words_ , just “please” and “yes” and “everything”. Instead of answering, he pulls Harold closer, rubs himself against his body. Harold doesn't miss a beat: he pulls John down to kiss him, the water cascading over their bodies. John rubs himself against Harold's leg, kisses him deeply, desperately.

Harold draws back for a moment, smoothing John's wet hair away from his face. “More?” He asks, with such kindness that John wants to slide to his knees on the marble floor.

John nods weakly. He has no idea what he wants, but thankfully, Harold makes the decision in his place.

“Turn around and brace yourself against the wall,” Harold says.

John is so relieved that he could weep. He turns around, bracing his arms against the tile. Harold keeps his hands on him, not breaking the contact, and then slides two slick fingers into him. John gasps and pushes back against Harold's hand. He doesn't get hard, but that's alright: Harold is taking care of him, showing John where he belongs, and that is more than enough.

“Looks like I nearly missed the show,” Grace says from outside the shower stall.

John hears the door opening and then feels a small gust of cool air against his skin.

“Would you like to do the honors?” Harold asks.

John's hands claw at the slick tile of the wall.

Grace appears in his peripheral vision, a shock of red hair. “Tell me what you need, John,” she says. Her fingers ghost over his chest, circle his nipples, then her hand comes to rest on his stomach.

“Whatever you like,” John says, _meaning_ it. “You can hurt me, if you like. Cause me pain, if that's – if that's what you want.”

He can't see her face. Harold has pulled his hand away and John is mourning the loss of contact, shivering under the spray.

“Oh, but I don't need to hurt you,” Grace says casually. She takes his right nipple between thumb and forefinger and rubs the sensitive nub, and John's whole body arches into the touch. “I like pleasure much more than pain, and you already know where you belong, don't you?”

She moves behind him, taking Harold's place. Then her index finger presses against his opening, a tease of what's to come. “Where do you belong, John?”

John spreads his legs wider. “I belong to you,” he says, and it feels so easy, like breathing.

“That's right, my darling, you do,” Grace says, and then fingers him until he screams.

–-

After, John gets to wash Grace's hair while Harold watches, pleased. John thinks they probably ran up an impressive water bill, but neither seems to care. John massages Grace's scalp with his fingertips, stroking his hands down to her shoulders, loosening the knots there.

Grace and Harold dry him off when they step out of the shower, taking turns in kissing him, running their hands over his freshly clean body. John feels dizzy with happiness when he gets to crawl back into bed with them: Grace has changed the sheets in the meantime, and produced a third pillow from somewhere.

They let John sleep between them, Harold curled up around his back, Grace snuggled in against his chest. John can't stop touching them, moving even closer, until finally Harold takes his hand and says “Hush now, John, we have time to do more of that in the morning. Go to sleep.”

John blinks away confused, grateful tears. They have time. They have time to do more of this.

Grace kisses a scar on his chest. “It's okay, we've got you. We'll take such good care of you, John.”

John kisses her forehead and squeezes Harold's hand. “I belong to you,” John says, feeling the truth of the words sink deeply into the marrow of his bones.

– fin

 


End file.
